Speech
by Tashaelizabeth
Summary: Wilson kid!fic with a side of implied slash. Wilson's son thinks back on his childhood.
1. Chapter 1

My first memory is being lost.

Before it, nothing is concrete; just vaguely shifting images. A tree. A dog. My mother's bed, though I don't remember the actual woman, or when she died, or the month I spent in a foster home while my grandparents fought my father for custody.

They claimed he was unfit, but New Jersey sided with my father, which is apparently kind of a big deal. One of my law professors says he's cited Wilson v Rockwell before, and it helped him win. It hasn't made him grade me any lighter though, so I guess it's not really important.

I was a just a kid, and my Uncle Greg was supposed to be watching me, but he had a drink and fell asleep on the couch, and apparently I wandered right out the door.

I was six blocks away, quite a distance for a little kid, when somebody noticed me and called the police. The cops took me to the nearest station and tried to match me to missing person reports.

I don't remember any of that. I just vaguely recall sitting on a policewoman's desk, a mob of blue uniforms around me, crying because nobody could understand my horrible lisp. My address, perfectly memorized, was no use as the numbers were "Thick thonty thew," (Six Twenty-Two) and gibberish to everyone in the room.

"Call my daddy!" I cried.

"We're trying, honey. But we don't know where he is," the policewoman said. She had kind eyes and had given me a tootsie roll, but I was still scared.

"Printh-tin!" I said for the dozenth time. "Printh-tin Plainth-bear."

"Do you mean Princeton, honey?" 

I nodded vigorously. "Thatth what I thaid. Printh-tin Plainth-bear."

"Plainth-bear?"

"Bear-o."

"Barrel? Borrow? Plainsboro? Princeton Plainsboro?"

"That's a hospital," one of the cops said.

"The hospital?" the policewoman asked. "Your daddy is in the hospital?"

I agreed, not yet knowing the difference between in the hospital and _in the hospital_.

"Is he hurt or sick?"

"He'th head of onth-cology."

So, they called him, then let me play with some grimy Legos that I didn't want to leave, even after my father showed up. I remember him kneeling next to me, still in his white coat, trying to get me to look him in the eye.

"Hey there buddy boy. What's the matter?"

"I wanna play."

"You can play at home." 

"I don't have Lego-th at home."

He took my hands, shaking the sticky plastic pieces out of them. "That's because little toys are hard to walk on."

"Not for uth. Only for Uncle Greg."

Dad nodded.

"Uncle Greg ruin-th everything," I said, and I can still remember perfectly the look of pain that crossed my father's face.

"Don't say that," he said sternly, picking me up and rising to his feet. I put my head on his shoulder and he took me home, where he and Uncle Greg fought, like always.

The consensus of the fight was that I needed to take speech therapy. Dad had been convinced I would grow out of it on my own. Uncle Greg said I was smart, and verbally – as I would have said – "Precoth-ith". I just couldn't hear the difference between the warm and comfortable "Th" and the dreaded "S".

Speech therapy consisted of sitting in an office, not unlike my father's, and repeating things over and over again while I played with matchbox cars, another forbidden toy.

"What's your name?" the speech therapist, a severe looking woman who wore too much makeup, would say.

"Jotheph," I would say. "Jotheph Wilthon."

"Josssseph." 

"Jotheph."

"Wilsssson."

"Wilthon."

Her careful instruction regarding tongue placement just led to me making a hissing sound before the "Th." For two weeks, my name was Jossstheph Wilsssthon, before she switched me to a tape recorder.

"Listen to how you speak," she'd say, and play me a stream of my own babbling.

"My name is Jotheph Wilthon and I am thick yearth old. I live with my daddy and my Uncle Greg. They're both doctorth. My daddy ith head of onth-cology at Printh-tin Plainsth-bear. Uncle Greg ith chief diagnoth-tith-in. He'th got one leg that doethn't work right." 

"Uh huh," I'd say. "Thath right."

Speech therapy didn't work.

It was Uncle Greg who fixed it in the end.

One day, a rainy afternoon when my father was at work, he set me at the kitchen table and put a candle in front of me.

"Tell your name to the candle without blowing it out," he instructed.

"Jotheph," I said, and the candle went out.

Uncle Greg was staring at me intently. He had a tendency to do that, and even at that young and oblivious age it unnerved me. He looked at you like he was looking inside you, at the way your insides worked, and it always made my stomach feel funny. Even when I was older, and took to calling him "old man" in a condescending way (and I still don't know why he didn't kick my ass for that), a cold look from him would snap my respect right back to the surface.

"You're not wrong," he said.

"What?"

"You're not wrong. The way you say things isn't any worse then the way anybody else says them. It's just different. People don't like different. A bunch of people who happen to be the same get together and decide everybody else is different, but that doesn't make you wrong." He smiled to himself. "Did that make sense?"

"Thort of."

He lit the candle again. "Say your name to the candle without blowing it out."

As quietly as possible I said, "Jotheph." The candle went out.

Uncle Greg lit the candle again.

Over and over, I tried. "Jotheph. Jotheph. Jotheph." Uncle Greg kept lighting the candle, and soon the room filled with the distinct smell of burnt wick. The afternoon passed, the rain moved on and I looked longingly out the kitchen window to the back yard, with its mud puddles and fallen branches.

Uncle Greg lit the candle one last time, and I heard the garage door clank open as Dad pulled his car in. Uncle Greg rose from the table and went to the sink, filling a glass with water.

I stared intently at the little orange flame, and, as the door to the garage opened and I heard my father's briefcase hit the floor, I whispered, "Joseph."

Uncle Greg turned to me, smiling. "Again."

"Joseph," I said. "Joseph Wilson."

The candle burned bright. 

"Wilson!" Uncle Greg called. "Come in here."

Dad entered the kitchen, looking tired and confused, and maybe a little mad at all the smoke. "What?"

"Do it again," Uncle Greg said.

"Joseph Wilson," I said to the little candle.

My dad smiled, bright and big. Dad always smiled with his whole body.

"I'm real proud of you, buddy. Way to go!" Then he slid his arm around Uncle Greg's waist, and leaned his forehead into Uncle Greg's neck. They stood like that for a moment, and even in my six-year-old mind I realized something more was going on; that Dad was actually proud of Uncle Greg, and that this was the resolution of one of their fights. I knew that the only part of this whole thing that had been about me was the part where Uncle Greg said I wasn't wrong.

Then they both stepped away and my Dad looked at me with a smile, and I felt happy again. He said if I put on a clean shirt he'd take me to dinner to celebrate. I gave a whoop, blew out the candle and raced upstairs.

I suppose there's a metaphor in there somewhere, about words and families being delicate, like candle flames. I don't know. I'm not poetic enough to sort it out.

I guess that's really my first memory, the first event I can really remember from beginning to end. Uncle Greg, me, a little candle, and trying to say my name. The time Uncle Greg fixed me, just like he fixed everybody else.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't want to take calculus. Who would, right? I was sixteen. I was already a year ahead. I wanted to take it easy. Coast.

I knew to broach the subject once I stopped hearing my Uncle Greg's raised voice, and started hearing Dad call me down to dinner. I don't know what they were fighting about; I never knew what they were fighting about.

I announced my intentions, bluntly, as soon as dinner was served.

"I don't want to take calculus." 

My dad sighed. He would get to a point were he just couldn't fight anymore, and would give into whatever you wanted. The trick was finding that point.

"I don't," I said.

"Tough," Uncle Greg said.

"That's not helping," Dad said.

I glared at Uncle Greg. "Why should I have to take it?"

He gave me a _duh_ look. "Because it's what comes after trig."

"But I barely passed trig."

"Because you didn't study."

"Because I'm not good at math," I whined.

"You're not good at math because you don't study," Uncle Greg said.

Dad held up his hands. "Time out, guys. Joseph, you are good at math. Don't say you're not. House, give him a chance to explain himself. What do you want to take instead?"

I shrugged. "Nothing."

Now Dad gave me the _duh_ look. "What?"

"Nothing. Study hall."

"Absolutely not." Dad said.

Uncle Greg looked triumphant.

"I don't need it to graduate," I said. "Why do you always side with him?"

"I don't…" Dad started.

"It's not even that hard," Uncle Greg said.

"The only thing you think is hard is walking to the mailbox," I snapped.

My father slammed his hand down on the table. The silverware jumped.

"You do not," my father said in a grave voice, "speak to people like that. Ever. Do you understand?" 

Two sets of eyes stared me down. I nodded, mumbling, "Sorry."

We finished dinner in silence and I legged it back to my room.

I slammed the door and threw a pillow. I played on the computer for a few hours until my father went to bed and Uncle Greg closed himself in the office.

I got bored. I got angry.

Then I went outside and stole my father's car.

I have no idea why.

It seemed like the thing to do. It wasn't until I'd rolled it down the street and started it as quietly as possible that I even decided where to go.

It was a warm summer night, and I remember the sound of the air conditioner over the radio, and the hum of the engine at my fingertips.

I found a parking lot where people from school hung out, then found some guys from my sophomore English class, who found a party.

There I got royally drunk.

I did tequila shots until I thought I was going to puke from the salt. Then I switched to vodka.

There was music playing loudly and I sat on a couch, watching people make out and dance.

After far too long spent contemplating the ceiling, I found my friends and told them I was going home because my stomach hurt. They laughed, and one thrust a cigarette into my hands and told me it would help. I took a few puffs of the sweet smoke, acknowledged it as pot and promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up, the house was empty and a beautiful girl was shaking my shoulder.

I don't know who she was, but she was tired and in her pajamas. "You need to go," she said. "You need to go right now." The urgency in her voice scared me and I bolted, leaving behind my expensive leather coat. Maybe her parents were home, maybe she just wanted to go to bed, I don't know, but the terror stayed with me as I swerved all the way home.

By the time I put my key in the door, red was bleeding into the dark sky. I didn't even get the doorknob turned. The door opened on its own. Uncle Greg reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me inside and bellowing, "What _the hell_ is wrong with you?" 

He pulled me into the kitchen. Dad had his back to me, his hands on the kitchen counter.

"I found him," Uncle Greg said. "He smells like a casino."

Dad turned, staring at the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Yeah." 

"You're sure you're not hurt?"

"Yeah."

"Was there an emergency? Something I don't know about?"

Uncle Greg snorted.

"No." I spoke very quietly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Uncle Greg said.

Dad raised a hand to shush him. "You can't do things like this," he said, still not looking me in the eyes.

"They'll take you away!" Uncle Greg yelled. "Is that what you want? Do you want them to take you away?"

"House!" Dad yelled.

Uncle Greg rolled his eyes and leaned back on the table. "Fine."

Dad turned back to me. He took a breath and spoke again in a low voice. "I want you to tell me what exactly you were thinking." 

And then…I guess I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt both of them. I wanted them to feel, just once, like I felt all the time. I let out a stream of profanity, most of which I can't remember, but somewhere in the middle I grasped for the worst word I knew.

Let's just say, in my father's home the f-word did not end in u-c-k.

I yelled it, loudly. I believe my exact words were, "And I don't have to listen to a couple of…"

Yeah.

He slapped me.

I'd never so much as had my hand batted for stealing cookie dough, but that night my father slapped me, hard, across my face.

When I looked up, shocked, his eyes were still narrowed in rage, and he raised his hand again. For a second I went numb with fear, convinced he was going to beat the ever loving shit out of me.

He might have; I honestly don't know.

Uncle Greg was there instantly, stepping between us, his hand heavy on my shoulder to keep himself upright.

"No," he said. My father turned away, bringing his hand to his face. Uncle Greg turned to me and said, "Go to your room."

I fled and he wobbled, grabbing for the wall.

I slammed the door dramatically and flung myself on my bed. And of course, I could hear them yelling.

I don't know how long I lay there, and I don't know if I fell asleep again, but I remember Uncle Greg's knock on the door.

"Kid?"

I threw my pillow at the door, and he took that as an invitation. He shut the door firmly behind him, and took a seat on my desk chair.

"Kid? Look at me."

I buried my face in my mattress.

"Look at me, please."

I peaked at him over my arm.

"Are you okay?"

"What do you care?"

"Let me see your face."

I sat up, leaning forward as he took my chin in his hand and studied my red cheek.

"Is it going to bruise?" I asked.

He cocked his head. "Don't think so." He released my face. I sat back on my bed, my back against the wall. "Are you okay?"

"I guess. Is Dad mad?"

"Yeah. He's mad. He'll get over it. I'm mad at him. I'll get over it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

There was a knock.

"Joseph?" Dad stuck his head in. Uncle Greg pushed himself up, immediately. "Can I talk to you?" Dad shot Uncle Greg a cool look. "Alone?"

"Talk to him around me," Uncle Greg said.

Dad pulled himself up and looked Uncle Greg in eye. "House, I want to talk to my son."

Uncle Greg looked to me, and after a moment I realized he was seeking my permission to leave. I nodded hastily and he left the room.

"Joseph," Dad said softly. "I'm sorry. That was wrong."

I rolled over, giving him my back. He sat on the end of my bed. "I am sorry," he said. "I don't know if you understand. I don't know if you'll ever understand. You grew up in such a different way." He shrugged. "But I never should have raised my hand to you. Ever. I'm sorry."

I burst into tears. I think that was last time I ever cried like that, totally and completely, like a little kid. I crawled up, grabbed Dad around the middle, and sobbed into his stomach. He put a hand on my back and rubbed soothingly.

"Shh," he said. "It's okay."

"I'm a bad kid," I blubbered. "I'm a real bad kid."

"No, you're not. You're a good kid who sometimes does bad things."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry." Then I told him all about the party, and the drinking, and his car.

He tensed, but made a joke. "Next time steal House's car. It's faster."

"Why do you say that?" I might have been trying to change the subject away from myself, but part of me really wanted to know. I sat up, pushing the tears off my face with the palms of my hands.

"Um, because it is?"

"No, why do you call him House?"

"That's his name. Everybody calls him that. Except maybe his mother."

"I don't call him that." 

"Well, yeah. You don't remember why?"

"No."

"When you first came to live with us, you didn't quite have control over your tongue. H's and S's were the tough ones. When you met him, he told you his name and you didn't like it. Too hard to say. You called him Outh for a few days, then…" Dad looked down at his hands. "You started calling him Daddy."

"I did?"

"Yeah. You were really little and it was one of the words you could actually say clearly. You probably thought it meant Guy Who Feeds Me or something, but…I didn't like it. I'd barely even met you. I wasn't ready to share. He figured out it was bugging me, I guess. I woke up one morning, late because he'd unplugged the alarm clock, and you and him were sitting in the living room watching TV and you were calling him Uncle Greg." He threw up his hands. "I guess that's not really a good story."

"No. I like it," I said.

Dad rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Does that mean we're even?" I asked.

"Oh no. You're grounded for a month. No car. No TV. No cell phone. And you're volunteering at the hospital for the next week so I can keep an eye on you." He gave a quiet little laugh. "Go take a shower. You reek." He shoved me playfully, but his touch was light and he quickly drew his hands back into his lap.

I hopped off the bed, turning to look at him in the doorway.

I have lots of pictures of my dad, nice professional ones and happy candid ones, but when I close my eyes and try to picture him, I see him as he was at that moment. His head pressed against the wall. His eyes closed. His face tilted toward the ceiling. Tired. Sad.

I went to take a shower.


	3. Chapter 3

I look almost exactly like my father. Cheekbones, hair, fluctuating body type, it's all the same, except the eyes. Not the color, but the shape. Mine are rounder and wider apart. If you look at pictures of me and of my Dad at my age, it looks like someone grabbed his ears and pulled until his whole head stretched.

The eyes, I suppose, come from my mother. I'm not sure though. I have very few pictures of her and in the ones I have, she's already sick and that's really all you see in her.

I look nothing like my Uncle Greg, which makes sense, as we don't share any genes. I sound like him though, especially upset. My mad voice and mocking vocabulary, thrown at inept waiters and gridlocked traffic. That's him. He comes out when I'm angry.

So, basically, I talked like him nonstop from thirteen to eighteen.

My father didn't exactly have it easy.

I don't blame him, not anymore, but oh, God, did I then.

I get that it wasn't his fault though, I mean, his job took a lot out of him and then there was me and then my grandparents sued for custody again and there were all these people coming into our lives and telling us how to live. He was just one man.

And then there was my Uncle Greg.

Uncle Greg wasn't the most paternal figure in the world.

How do I explain?

Oh, okay, you know that scene from Brave New World, where they go into the childrens' dorm and there are row after row of sleeping kids and these little speakers whispering at them to be good little children and not question society or whatever?

I always got the feeling Uncle Greg was pissed off he couldn't do that to me. Except instead of, "Gosh, I love new clothes," the speaker would say, "Be cynical. Be skeptical. There is no God. There is no soul. Gosh, we're all just meat bags running on electrical impulses, programmed by past behavior, stimulus and response."

Only, he wouldn't say gosh.

He didn't believe in pulling punches and he didn't believe in inappropriate conversation and he didn't believe that a ten year old shouldn't know that the reason his father didn't get out of bed in the morning was because he couldn't stand to look anyone.

More on that in a second.

It's usually about this time I say, I remember.

I remember…

I remember being angry as a kid. I remember being lonely.

I remember it was Christmas Eve and we were cruising home after one last shopping trip. I was kicking the air between my booster seat and Dad's seat back and updating my Christmas wish list one more time.

"Dad. Dad. Dad. Did you see those remote control helicopters? Do you think Santa will bring me one of those?"

"I don't know, buddy."

"I think he might. I know I didn't ask him for one but I think he might anyway. Or maybe he'll bring Uncle Greg one. Uncle Greg would like a remote control helicopter." I waved my hand through the air and mimicked a helicopter, granted one that moved like a jet plane.

I remember my Dad was smiling. I remember the radio was playing carols.

I remember the car came out of nowhere.

Wanna know a family secret?

Dad speeds. I know, he doesn't look like the type, but he speeds like a maniac. Dad cuts corners fast, rolls through stop signs and parks in illegal spaces. And often, while he's doing these things, he doesn't wear his seat belt.

When the big silver SUV plowed into the side of our little car, I wrenched hard against the plastic harness of my car seat and cried out in shock. Dad, on the other hand, smacked his head against the driver's side window, shattering the glass and then fell over the steering wheel, limp as a rag doll. He didn't make a noise.

It seemed to take forever but when the car finally stopped we were in the middle of the intersection. People were yelling. Cars were screeching to a halt. Dad wasn't moving.

"Dad?"

I remember yelling, "Dad!"

I was a blubbering, snotty, screaming, red faced mess when they dragged me out of the ambulance. It took two EMTs to get me into the emergency room and I was kicking the emergency room doctor every chance I could get.

I was one hundred percent sure my dad was dead. My dad was dead and they'd take me away again and this time they'd send me God knows were and I'd never see my school or my room or any of my friends ever again.

So I was kicking the emergency room doctor.

Don't try to reason it out. It's panicked little kid logic.

The doctor kept trying to get her hands on me, to check my pulse or the bruises running from my shoulders down my abdomen or to see if I was bleeding.

"Joseph," she'd say. "Joseph, honey, remember me? You know me, sweetheart. It's Doctor Cameron."

And then I'd kick her again.

This went on for a while. I don't remember how long.

She was getting frustrated and then finally she backed off, gritted her teeth, and asked me, in a pseudo calm voice, if I'd rather she tied me down.

That's when the curtain pulled back and there was Uncle Greg.

I launched myself at him and he threw his cane down on the bed to take me up in both arms.

This was not something that happened very often.

I wrapped my legs around his stomach, rested my head on his shoulder, and wailed pitifully.

"Get lost," he told the doctor.

Uncle Greg checked me out himself.

I was fine. Bruised and shaken up, but completely fine, not a scratch.

The next parts are confusing and I remember them out of order.

I remember I took a shower and changed my clothes. I remember there was glass in my hair.

I remember a police officer came and took pictures of my chest and back. The bruises formed a near perfect outline of the harness of my car seat.

I remember Uncle Greg yelling loudly at Lisa, a friend of the family, who I think was in charge at the time. She was telling him hospital policy and he was telling her to go to hell.

I remember my Dad.

He was lying in the hospital bed, one eye bruised and swollen shut. It wasn't until I saw the easy rise and fall of his chest that I let myself think he could be alive.

I turned to Uncle Greg.

"He's breathing-breathing, right? Not machine-breathing?" I knew they had gizmos that could keep your lungs inflating and your heart beating long after you were dead.

"Joseph?" Dad croaked.

I let out a little relieved sigh and ran to him, putting my hands on the metal railings of the bed.

"Joseph. I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault." I said. "It was the goddamn SUV."

"Its fine, Wilson," Uncle Greg said. "He's totally fine."

There's this problem in my family. See, we're three guys, three guy-guys and there are times when not a one of us can express what we're all feeling. So we stand around and stare at each other and say things like, "I'm sorry," or "It's fine," when what we mean is, "I'm scared. I love you very much and I'm scared that I'm going to lose you."

This was one of those times.

Some of Uncle Greg's doctors came in, wearing white coats.

Uncle Greg put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back from the bed.

"Joseph. They have to take him for an MRI."

I nodded.

Dad closed his other eye and they wheeled him away.

"Don't say goddamn," Uncle Greg said to the empty room.

I nodded.

-

I don't remember this.

I was sitting next to Uncle Greg in one of the waiting rooms. Uncle Greg was staring into space. I was drawing on scratch paper and shooting my mouth off.

"Maybe," I said, apparently, "Santa Clause will bring my presents here."

"Look, kid," Uncle Greg said wearily. "About Santa Clause. He's…"

I flipped out, dropped my papers, stood up on the chair and stuck my palm over his mouth. "No!" I said.

Uncle Greg pulled away my hand and gave me a look.

"Don't tell, Dad," I said.

"Don't tell him what?"

"That I know there is no Santa Clause."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes him happy."

I don't remember it myself, but I remember Uncle Greg repeating the story every Christmas Eve for years and years.

-

Head injuries are weird.

You can seem fine, or at least, seem like you're going to be fine. They can send you home to rest up on the couch while your son opens up the remote control helicopter he saw you sneak into the trunk. You can pass all the tests, put the story cards in the right order, and repeat who the president is. You can do all these things and still be royally fucked up.

Look, I'm not a doctor, but I remember him before and I remember him after and afterward it was different. He was slightly moody, more prone to depression…

This is really stupid but he was a less bouncy Tigger. That's how I thought of it at the time. It was just like in the video, he went away and when he came back the bounce was gone.

Anyway, all of that stuff is much later. This assignment was supposed to be small._ Write about a moment in your childhood when something important was said that you've always remembered._

"You're not wrong."

"Do you want them to take you away?"

"I'm so sorry."

"He's fine."

"Don't tell Dad…because it makes him happy."

Written out like that it seems so small, fragile, this weak little flame we all huddled around, trying to keep each other sane.

I can't tell my father I love him anymore than I can sprout wings and fly. We don't work like that. But we do work, mostly, and we do occasionally stumble into affection and cooperation and even happiness (though we usually get so startled we raise our hands in surrender and walk quickly back down the path we came.) I can't say, "I love you, Dad." I can't say, "And you too, old man." I can't say, "Thank you for the sacrifices you made and the life you allowed to change and the million tons of effort you shoved into me every single day."

I can't say those things.

I can say this.

I remember.


End file.
